And to All a Good Night
by moonlighten
Summary: December, 1955: England tries to introduce a new family Christmas tradition for Northern Ireland's benefit. Scotland, in particular, is not impressed. (Gen.) One-shot, complete. Part of the Feel the Fear series.


**24th December, 1955; London, England**

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"I don't see why I have to do it," Scotland says, folding his arms defensively across his chest. "Wales would be far more convincing. He's already got the gut for it, for a start."

"Whilst I don't deny that some aspects of Wales' person may be... more festively appropriate," England says. "He doesn't really have the right sort of physique for the role, otherwise."

"Which is...?"

"I've always pictured him as a generously-proportioned sort of fellow even beyond the belly. And he would have to have a deep, booming voice, of course. I feel Wales simply couldn't imbue the 'Ho, Ho, Ho,' with the right kind of gravitas."

"Gravitas?" Scotland rolls his eyes heavenwards. "Jesus Christ, we're not talking about an audition for fucking Hamlet here or anything. I'm sure he'd do fine."

"Fine isn't good enough," England insists. "If something's worth doing, it's worth doing well. Besides" – he waves his hand towards the red and white costume hanging up on the back of the living room door – "the costume's much too big for him."

"A costume _you_ made. Very convenient. You've been planning this right from the start, haven't you?"

England's cheeks pink, which is confirmation enough even if he does avoid answering the accusation verbally. "Well, it's far too late in the day for me to start making any alterations now," he says. "We'll just have to make do."

"I don't see why we have to _do_ anything at all. We've never bothered with this sort of rubbish before. Why have got such a bee in your bonnet about it this year?"

"I don't think we do enough to make Christmas special for North. It should be a time of wonder for a child, but, the way we go about things normally, it might as well be just any other day, excepting that there are a few more baubles strewn about the place. I was reading something recently that..."

England trails into silence, his flush deepening, which suggests that his choice in literature this holiday season has been even more mawkish than his usual fare, and he has thus persuaded himself that they would be doing a disservice to their little brother if he woke the next morning to anything less than the quintessential snow-encrusted, holly-bedecked parade of twee sentimentality.

Scotland himself is unmoved by the idea, thinking Northern Ireland already well-served as far as wonder is concerned by the careful dance of portioning they perform around the turkey and Christmas pudding to ensure he always gets the wishbone and sixpence as if by accident, but he knows England will become insufferable if he keeps on resisting it.

To his mind, Christmas should be about peace, goodwill, and steadily drinking yourself into a stupor for the duration, and the last time he'd pissed England off on the day, all the alcohol in the house up and mysteriously vanished. He'd been forced to play their traditional round of inane parlour games completely and devastatingly sober, which is a horror he has no wish to ever have to live through again.

Scotland sighs. "Okay, I'll do it. For North." He turns and studies the costume again with a more critical eye. There's the prerequisite floppy hat with a ridiculously oversized pompom attached to the tip, fur-lined jacket and trousers, and a thick belt with a huge, gaudy buckle, but he can see nothing in the way of footwear in evidence. "What am I supposed to do for boots," he asks England.

"It's damn near impossible to get anything suitable in your size, and those I did find...? Well, the price they were asking for them was simply ludicrous. You'll just have to use some of your own. Though" – England's eyes narrow warningly – "make sure you give them a bloody good scrub first. I won't stand for you tracking mud through the house, even for North's sake."  
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* * *

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By dint of imagining the brush's bristles as metal spikes and his boots as England's face, Scotland is able to polish them to a fine mirror within mere moments.

When he returns from the back doorstep with them in hand, he discovers England pressing one of his own boots against the hallway floor, adding to the trail of sooty footprints which already wend their way out of the parlour.

"Before you ask," England says the instant Scotland opens his mouth to complain about the clear and deplorable set of double standards on display, "this is different to you getting your mucky great feet over everything."

"Really? Because it looks pretty much the same from where I'm standing."

"You have absolutely no romance in your soul, do you? Not a single speck," England says, shaking his head as if in despair. "When North gets up tomorrow and sees these, it'll seem like proof positive Father Christmas climbed down the chimney and walked up to his room, just as we've always told him he does. I've heard some parents do the same for their children. Helps keep the magic alive."

"Aye, but their children probably aren't _over forty_. He's not a bairn anymore, England."

"He's still a little boy. I don't know why you're so determined that he grow up as fast as we had to." England clucks his tongue chidingly. "And don't think I don't know what you're up to. Come on, stop trying to distract me. Go and put that costume on."  
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* * *

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Wales slowly looks Scotland up and down, his brows furrowed with what appears to be intense concentration, and then gives his verdict that: "You should try smiling. Father Christmas doesn't usually look like he wants to throttle someone."

"You'd look the same if you had to wear this fucking beard," Scotland says, lifting it up to scratch at his chin again. The itch simply intensifies. "It feels like it's made from wire wool. Actually, I wouldn't put that past the little bastard." He raises his voice slightly, and calls out, "England, what the fuck did you make this beard out of?"

"Why on earth do you care?" England says, popping his head around the door from the hallway. "You've never taken any interest in those sorts of things before, even when I—"

"I care when it feels like it's stripping all the skin off my face, England!"

"It's just wool, Scotland." England steps the rest of the way into the living room, dragging a huge, bulging coal sack behind him, out of the top of which sprout a veritable forest of candy canes. "Stop being so dramatic."

"Are all those presents for North?" Wales asks, his eyes widening in surprise.

"Heavens, no," England says. "He's just getting his stocking and a couple of books, same as always. Most of this is just filled with empty boxes and old newspaper."

"Oh," Wales says. After a moment taken to fully digest this reply, he clearly finds it as lacking as Scotland does, and asks, "Why?"

"To add verisimilitude," England says in an exasperated tone, as though that fact should be self-evident and Wales is being deliberately obtuse by not recognising it. "Honestly, neither of you are even _trying_ to get into the spirit of things, are you? Father Christmas wouldn't look right if he wasn't carrying a sack of presents, would he?"

"I thought the whole point was delivering the presents whilst the kid's sleeping," Scotland says. "What does it matter if I don't look exactly right? Why go to all this bother?"

"We can't risk the illusion being shattered if he does happen to stir. Speaking of which" – England glances at his watch – "he should be sound asleep now. Hop to it. And Scotland," he adds gravely as Scotland stoops to pick up the sack, "please at least try to be quiet and not wake him. The costume really is just a last resort."  
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* * *

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It takes a couple of minutes of careful manoeuvring, but Scotland manages to ease open Northern Ireland's bedroom door without rousing a single creak of protest from the normally obstreperous hinges.

The slightly loose floorboard in front of the chest of drawers proves his undoing, however.

"Is someone there?" Northern Ireland cries out at the noise, sitting bolt upright in his bed.

Scotland freezes in place, his tongue feeling as thick and heavy as a lump of lead. He can think of absolutely nothing to do or to say, save for one simple phrase, which has been echoing around his mind for the past hour or so, thanks to England.

"Ho, Ho, Ho?" he ventures.

"Scotland?" Northern Ireland flicks on his bedside lamp, stares at Scotland, rubs at his eyes, and then stares some more. "Scotland, why are you dressed like Father Christmas?"

"I..." Scotland really should have prepared better for this eventuality. Discussed it with his brothers, perhaps. "It's..." Wales would doubtless have been able to spin some mystical tale of enchantment on the spur of the moment to explain his presence there; England, some pre-existing claptrap he'd already trotted out to one of the weans once upon a time. Put on the spot like this, Scotland has nothing to offer but the flimsy and hastily constructed excuse that, "I'm helping him out."

Thankfully, Northern Ireland looks intrigued rather than sceptical. "Really?" he asks, his eyebrows shooting up so high they're almost hidden by his fringe. "Why?"

"Well, Father Christmas is a busy man, isn't he?" Scotland says.. "It's difficult getting round to so many houses in one night, so he... He asks for a bit of a helping hand sometimes. And who better to ask than a nation? We're magic, just like him, and we know _all_ of our people. Whether they've been naughty or nice, and so on."

He finishes with a great deal more conviction than he'd started, encouraged by Northern Ireland's thoughtful nodding into thinking that the ill-formed shit he's spouting is somewhat plausible.

"He's never asked me," Northern Ireland says, sounding a little despondent.

"Well, that's just because you're so wee," Scotland says, grateful now for the sack England had lumbered him with. He gestures towards it. "You'd never be able to carry that, would you? It's almost as big as you are! When you're older, he's sure to ask. We all do our bit at Christmas."

"England and Wales, too?"

"Of course."

Northern Ireland frowns. "Then why isn't England helping him now? Shouldn't he be the one in London, and you in Scotland?"

A bloody good question, and Scotland had been too fixated on Wales earlier to think to wonder _why_ England wasn't the one playing dress-up in the middle of the night when it had been his stupid idea in the first place.

He sees an opportunity to make damn sure that he will be the one _next_ year, if he insists on repeating this nonsense, and lowers his voice to a whisper in the pretence of a secret shared, "It's not as easy for us as it is for Father Christmas, so we have to take turns. It's my turn this year, but next year it's England's. I'm sure you'll want to see him doing his part, too, so I'll let him know you'll be sitting up waiting for him then as soon as I get back downstairs."


End file.
